


Trying To Touch The Ground

by ObjectPermanence



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutant, Mutant Hunter, Self Harm, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:16:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObjectPermanence/pseuds/ObjectPermanence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where being a mutant is dangerous and looked down upon, brothers, Dean and Sam hunt them for a living, never thinking twice about killing them in cold blood as long as they get paid. Until they get a case involving a young man named Cas who is quite literally an angel. Dean begins to question the logic behind killing off these people, and Sam discovers he is a hypocrite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying To Touch The Ground

**Eleven Years Earlier**

Castiel's heart was beating so fast he was afraid it might burst out of his chest. His breathing was ragged and he bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain as he squeezed the handle of the scissors closed. Pain erupted in every inch of his body and the soft snipping of the tool echoed around the large tile bathroom. More blood dripped onto his hand and then onto the white floor matt, staining it a deep scarlet that he knew he wouldn't be able to hide.

Fear was the only thing keeping the boy from passing out from exhaustion, the fear that his father might discover him at any moment. That he might walk in and see what he was doing with the pair of scissors, which were usually reserved for cutting meat, he'd stolen from the kitchen earlier that morning.

 _Just a few more._  Castiel told himself, fighting back the urge to cry and quit without finishing the job. Shakily, he moved the scissors again until he found the target and snipped as quickly as he could.  _Just like a band aid._  He bit his arm to stifle his sobs from echoing around the room and alerting someone to his presence. 

Two. Three. Four more times he repeated the process, each time shaking violently as he bled and snipped the offensive things away. A small pool of blood had formed around his feet, the stark contrast between his pale skin and the small ocean of red reflected in the floor length mirror. 

"Castiel?" A man's voice boomed from the other side of the door. The boy felt his stomach turn to lead as the scissors slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor below. "Open the door, son."

He froze, panic rising like a tidal wave threatening to drown Castiel right there in the bathroom. "J-just a minute!" He called, grabbing the scissors off the floor and switching the sink on as fast as he could manage.

"You've been in there for over half an hour, is something wrong?" He demanded as Castiel washed the remnants of blood down the sink, trying to scrub the stains from the metal.

He was hyperventilating, struggling to stead his voice as he spoke. "I'm find, Dad. Just give me a minute!" Quickly he jammed the scissors into the nearest drawer. Stooping down Castiel tried to soak up the puddle of blood as best he could with another white towel, only managing to make a bigger mess with the thick liquid. 

His father growled angrily, growing impatient. "I'm coming in!"

"No!" He cried just as his father kicked the door open, standing much taller than the small boy in the doorway. Castiel froze, painfully aware of what now decorated the bathroom along with his blood. Painfully aware of what now decorated him.

"Castiel." His father began, looking around the room in horror. "What is this? What have you been doing?"

Castiel opened his mouth to respond but faltered when the man's gaze settled on him, standing bare chested and covered in blood, standing on a pool of blood on the bathroom floor. "What are those?" His father asked, partially horrified and partially confused, pointing to what Castiel had been trying to destroy.

"I'm so sorry!" The boy sobbed openly, falling to his knees and burying his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry father, so sorry! Please don't hate me!"

"I said," His father asked distantly, his voice full of anger and resentment. "What are those?" The man was pointing accusingly with one finger at his son's back. Along the sides of Castiel's spine, next to his shoulder blades, were two small, gray wings, ragged and blood stained in some places where he had tried to cut them away.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered, not daring to look up at his father, fearing the pain and anger in his gaze. A moment later Castiel head the bathroom door slam shut as the older man left. Shaking, the boy dared to raise his head, only to be met with his reflection. He was a small boy, only 13 years old, pale and terrified, with tears running down his cheeks, kneeling in a puddle of blood and feathers with two complete, no longer clipped or blood stained, wings protruding from his back. 

That night Castiel cried himself to sleep. 

 


End file.
